i cannot speak to the you that you have beencannot witness the unnumbered hours you livedwell before methey are not and will not become mine to point toand the pages and volumes that make up your once wasi can read only in fragmentsscraping up sentences and coveting chaptersi may never see

but here, in this you and me standingmy face and your fingersyour laugh and my eyesthese few pieces of you are mine and mine onlyyour words and my hopingmy arms and your smilethey are only nothings, the smallest of momentsbut into them i will start to carve my picture of youupon them i will build my earliest knowingsthe things in you i am sure ofthe most in you i can see

these pieces of you i will use to begin itadd them to seconds, and somewheres, and timeand watch as the spaces that loom in my learning youcrowd up with memoryrender you mine

>I’m the victim of a relentless, painful, and humiliating attack. I am the target of unrelenting harassment and completely unjustified, but remarkably specific, vengeance. I’m being violently subjugated. By crows.

Three out of my four workdays find me trying to be a good Portlander and use the wealth of public transportation with which I have been provided. For the last year, I’ve hoofed the uneventful blocks between our house and the MAX station without a care or a second thought. I’ve enjoyed the pretty trees and the self-proclaimed “sexy coffee” stand that sits delightfully halfway to my destination. I’ve walked in rain and storms and almost snow, and it’s never really been that bad. Until…

Until I did something to anger the local wildlife. About three weeks ago, I was walking along, minding my own, when from behind I heard the jarring “caaahhh caaaahhh” of crows. Two crows. Two seemingly angry crows who seemed to be aiming their anger squarely in my direction. “Strange,” thought me, ” I wonder if they have a nest or something. Oh well.” I proceeded then to turn back around and continue along my way. Worst. Idea. Ever.

Turns out crows are the minions of Satan. They are evil little buggers who wait until your back is turned to unleash their dive-bombing fury on your unsuspecting head. You know the dungeon levels in Super Mario games with the ghosts that only move if you look away from them, then sneak up from behind you and kill you dead? Based on these crows. The moment my back was turned, I heard the swoosh of wings and the unnerving sound of a “caaaahhh” closing in and fwaaaack! Crow wings to the back of the head. Not even kidding.

At this point I become a rather sorry version of my former self, the self that loves all creatures and fears no beaks or talons. The new me is ducking and inching down the sidewalk, completely terrified and completely without a clue as to why I’ve suddenly become the target of choice for the crow militia. It took everything in me not to pound on the door of the nearest house and seek sanctuary until they went away. Instead, I sort of hop-ran until I made it to the MAX shelter where they finally relented. Four blocks. They hounded me for four blocks. Bullies.

Traumatic though the experience was, I chalked it up to crazy timing and freakish coincidence, until it happened the next day… and the next. It was then that I started to notice the crows weren’t attacking other pedestrians. Call me crazy, but those jerks were waiting, and watching, and targeting me. This is unfair for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the amount of time I’ve actually devoted to rescuing birds of all kinds. I’ve fed their abandoned kindred, plopped babies back into nests, shielded wayward waterfowl, and for what? To be abused by a couple of lousy ne’er do wells who seem to think we’re on the set of a Hitchcock film? Uncalled for, I say.

I’m not sure what to do about this crow problem. They don’t seem to be tiring of the fun in the slightest. I have a theory that involves a strategically timed umbrella opening, but so far the presence of the umbrella in my purse seems to be the only thing that will keep the attacks from happening. They’re nowhere to be found on days I’m prepared for the ambush, but on days like today, when I finally decide they’ve moved on and boldly leave my umbrella at home, they’re back in force. Three of them this morning. Thunked me on the noggin. Made me miss my MAX. Uncalled for.

>I didn’t go to Home Community tonight. Instead, I took a dog and a book and a blanket and a sandwich and sat myself down on the lawn at Mt. Tabor and enjoyed just being outside and peaceful for awhile. Which was lovely. But if I had gone to Home Community, I would have needed to bring my favorite food for the “Favorite Foods” potluck. And I would have brought this:

Oh, Haagen-Dazs vanilla raspberry swirl frozen yogurt – I love thee with a love that is more than love.

Now, make no mistake, this frozen yogurt isn’t good for you. Its list of ingredients, though refreshingly short, has both sugar and corn syrup (not really any better than its high fructose cousin) in the first four spots. But it isn’t terrible for you. And if you’re going to eat ice cream, I mean, come on. We’ll settle for “not terrible.”

Calorie wise, if you eat this whole pint, it’ll only set you back 510. Which is, ya know, a meal, and though you probably shouldn’t eat the whole pint if you can help it, (though you may not be able to help it. I understand.) it still beats the heck outta the 1000 calories you’d be downing in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

And for crying out loud, this isn’t a blog about nutrition, it’s a blog about cheap happiness. And at around $3, a pint of this will make you super happy on a hot summer day. Because it is super, super yummy – just the right blend of vanilla and berry to achieve total summery bliss. It’s pink, it’s sweet, it’s cold, it’s just about perfect. It might even be perfect. Whatever it is, it’s too darn good to be yogurt.

>Donald Miller’s blog has gone to the dogs. One dog in particular. Her name is Lucy, and she’s lovely, and delightfully insightful, and Caper has a big crush on her. You should read them all, but this one made me smile:How to Love and Be Loved

I saw Donald Miller at the Doug Fir the other night, but didn’t say anything so as not to be one of the hundreds of Blue Like Jazzers clambering to inform him that we’d probably be best friends because he just soooo gets it. But I will say: Good taste in concerts, Don Miller. And way to let your dog take over your blog.